


Remade

by writing_addiction



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anxiety, Egregious Abuse of Hamilton Lyrics, Family Feels, Genderfluid Character, LGBTQ Characters, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 01:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11681352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_addiction/pseuds/writing_addiction
Summary: Yuuri will always worry.  Hasn't Viktor learned that yet?  (In which Yuuri's anxiety has kept him from telling his friends and family something rather important, and maybe it's finally time to try to get it out?)





	Remade

“My son!” Yuuri’s father calls out as soon as they walk through the door.  He's already tipsy, and Yuuri can't help but smile at him.

“My son!” he says again, arms outstretched.  He whirls around to face the others, the Nishigori clan and Minkao and a few others.  “Look at my son!”

“Pride is not the word he's looking for,” Viktor comments under his breath in English, his words meant only for Yuuri.

“There is so much more inside him now,” Yuuri responds, gesturing towards the bottle of sake clutched in the man’s right hand.

Viktor laughs aloud.  Yuuri does as well.  His father is attempting to announce how proud he is that Yuuri won silver at the Grand Prix Final, but the alcohol is working against him.  His English has never been particularly strong, and he gives up trying to get out the name of the competition fairly quickly.

“My son,” Toshiyo says for a third time as he hugs Yuuri tightly.  “Welcome home.”

This time, Yuuri’s smile slips.

***

Viktor decides that they should begin choreographing a routine for Worlds while they're in Japan.  It's not exactly a bad idea, but Yuuri doesn't quite understand why he _need_ a new one just yet.  He’s been planning on further refining the programs he already has learned.

When asked, Viktor clarifies, “No, no, I meant a new exhibition program.  I already have a few ideas.  Here, let me explain.”

He defends his position quite well, but Yuuri doesn't agree with his arguments.  They already have so much to do while they're here in Hasetsu.  Why waste time on something like that this early?

“Next season, maybe?” he suggests tentatively.  “I...just want to relax right now.  We'll be going to Russia soon, remember?  I want some time with my family before we leave again.”

Viktor clearly hadn't thought that far ahead.  “Right.  Of course.  No, you're right, Yuuri.  I'm sorry.”

Yuuri feels bad now.  Viktor looks dejected, head hung and spirit defeated, and he tries to think of a way to make it up to him.  “But...since we're here anyway, why don't we skate a little more?  Something for fun.”

They don't.  They end up going back to the house and eating lunch.  His mother is there by herself, his father out on some errand or other, and about halfway through the meal, Viktor gives him a pointed look.  

“Perfect timing,” he whispers in Russian.

Yuuri, again, doesn't agree with him.

***

“This isn't obligatory,” Viktor reminds him that night as they lay in bed.  

“I want to,” Yuuri replies, as he has every other time they have this conversation.  “They deserve to know.  They're my family.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor starts, but after a long pause, he sighs and shakes his head.  “Never mind.  It's your choice.  I'll support you whatever you decide to do.”

Yuuri turns on his side, his back to his fiancé, and Viktor immediately turns with him.  He wraps an arm around Yuuri's waist and kisses his shoulder.  

Quietly, nervously, Yuuri asks, “How much does _your_ family know?”

Viktor hesitates.  “My situation isn't the same as yours.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't have an anxiety disorder.”

“Viktor!”

"I'm serious!” he says.  “I've always been close to my parents.  I tell them everything.  I'm not shy with them.  I told them when I got my first kiss and when I lost my virginity.  I told them about meeting you and dancing with you the morning after it happened.  I told them I was coming to Japan after you.  I told them when you proposed.”

“But?” Yuuri prompts.

“But,” he continues, “I have never struggled with anxiety.  It was less that I ever _told_ them about the finer points of my identity and the attraction I felt as much as that I never thought twice about _expressing myself_ in front of them.  If I had a crush on a boy or a girl or anyone else, I was bad at keeping quiet about it and so they knew.  When I wanted a costume that suggested two genders at once, they helped me pick it out and tailor it to my satisfaction without asking too many questions.”

“In other words,” Yuuri says, “you never _had_ to tell them outright like this.”

He felt Viktor nod against his skin.  “If you never talked to your parents about this kind of things before, and then you left the country for five years to go to college and further your training as a figure skater, they might have simply made due with their own assumptions.”

“You kissed me on the mouth on live international television.  That's not exactly subtle.”

“It's also not what we're talking about.”

Yuuri doesn't respond.

Viktor tries again.  “When I kissed you, what happened?  When Minako and Mari saw us in Barcelona with engagement rings, what happened?  When we first came back to Japan after the Final, what happened?  When you told your mother you intended for us to share a bedroom, what happened?”

“Nothing, really,” Yuuri admits.

“ _Exactly,_ ” Viktor says, his hand stroking Yuuri's arm gently.  “Nothing happened.  No arguments, no questions, no nothing.  Why would this be any different?”

Yuuri knows, objectively-speaking, that he's right.  But his mind is making up all sorts of alternatives where something bad happens, where his parents ask impertinent questions about his health or his body or its functionality or a million other things that he isn't prepared to share with anyone.  He also knows it's stupid to think that way about his parents, who have always respected his boundaries and his need for perhaps a bit more privacy than strictly necessary.  But his brain is more than happy to feed him nightmare fuel composed of improbable scenarios where his parents do and say things completely contrary to their nature for no discernable reason.

Which is less than helpful, to say the least.

“All I'm saying,” Viktor murmurs, “is that it's ultimately your choice whether or not to divulge this information, and if you do, that it won't change how much your parents love you.  The only thing that will change is how they think of you, that is--” Viktor is quick to add as Yuuri tenses up.  “--they will incorporate what you've told them into their mental image of you, and it will be altered for the better.  

“But also remember that no one is entitled to know any of this.  I just want to make sure you tell people because you _actually_ want to, not because you feel _obligated_.”

“I want to,” he repeats.  “They deserve to know.  They're my family.”

Viktor doesn't reply.  A few minutes later, Makkachin climbs into the bed and wiggles unceremoniously between them.  The warmth of the dog’s fur on his back isn't as comforting as his fiancé’s presence.

***

Phichit's voice is marred by static and a weird echo over the poorly-connected video chat, but Yuuri makes out his words regardless.  “You're gonna tell your parents?  Yuuri, that's great!”

“I'm glad you think so,” he replies with a shrug.  “I haven't found the right time, and the longer I wait, the more nervous I get.”

“Understandable,” his friend says with a shrug.  “Do you need help actually saying it out loud, though?  I know when you get anxious, you tend to have trouble finding your words.  We can practice, if you want.”

“It's not that.”

Phichit frowns a little.  “What is it, then?”

Yuuri sighs, picking at his fingernails.  “Japan isn't like America.  We don't normally talk about this stuff.  It's private.  Nobody talks about private things unless there's a reason to.  Wouldn't it be weird to just bring it up out of the blue?”

“...you still wanna talk about it anyway, right?  Isn't that a good enough reason in and of itself?  I don't think it's weird to want to share those kinds of things with your own family.  Maybe with a complete stranger on a train or something, sure.  Not your own kin.”

Yuuri feels as if he's being examined under a microscope.  “You sound like Viktor.”

Phichit smiles and laughs lightly.  “I'm going to take that as a compliment.”

Yuuri is silent for a long time.  Phichit is eating lunch on the other end of the line, and between watching him (and remembering what a great cook Phichit is) and the general self-inflicted stress of the whole situation, all Yuuri wants to do is shove food into his mouth until his stomach explodes.

When Phichit excuses himself to put his dirty dishes away, Yuuri disconnects the video call and returns to the instant messenger.

 

 

> _Actual Shinji Ikari:  
>  _ how did u tell ur parents about being trans?
> 
> _Actual Shinji Ikari:  
>  _ if u don't mind saying, u don't have to tho.
> 
> _Actual Shinji Ikari:  
>  _ sorry.
> 
> _Peach the King of Memes:  
>  _ nah it’s cool, i was like 3 and took a kitchen knife to my ponytail bc my dad said i wasnt allowed to cut my hair
> 
> _Peach the King of Memes:  
>  _ then i confidently told him that it was normal for boys to have short hair
> 
> _Actual Shinji Ikari:  
>  _ u were 3?
> 
> _Peach the King of Memes:  
>  _ yup i think so
> 
> _Peach the King of Memes:  
>  _ it took a minute for us to all understand what was going on but by the time i started school i was already starting to socially transition and wear boys clothes and stuff
> 
> _Peach the King of Memes:  
>  _ and my family got my name and pronouns down p fast so that was really great
> 
> _Actual Shinji Ikari:  
>  _ sounds nice.
> 
> _Peach the King of Memes:  
>  _ hey yuuri
> 
> _Actual Shinji Ikari:  
>  _ yeah?
> 
> _Peach the King of Memes:  
>  _ i know ur normally the burr to my alexander but like
> 
> _Peach the King of Memes:  
>  _ u have a hamilton side to u too
> 
> _Peach the King of Memes:  
>  _ And whether thats alex or eliza or phillip doesnt matter
> 
> _Peach the King of Memes:  
>  _ u have the strength to do anything u set ur mind to, i know u do, and viktor will always be right there to support u and u know i’m just a call away so like
> 
> _Peach the King of Memes:  
>  _ go do whatever it is u gotta do to be happy whether u tell ur parents abt this stuff or not
> 
> _Peach the King of Memes sent a video_
> 
> _Peach the King of Memes:  
>  _ don’t let ur dreams be dreams yuuri

They say their goodbyes and sign off shortly afterward, and Yuuri wonders at the kind of friendship he has with Phichit that a silly meme video and being compared to characters from a musical honestly helps him feel better.

***

In the end, nothing happens the way he wants it to.  Somehow, it’s better that way.

Minako is, accidentally, the first person he tells.  He and Viktor were prepared to start the conversation during dinner, where everyone is gathered around so they’ll only have to do it once, but he has an anxiety attack before they can start and abandons his dinner in favor of running off to the dance studio.  He moves through the basic ballet positions and a few simple, formulaic dances over and over again until he’s got control of his thoughts again.  When he does, he opens the music app on his phone and tries to pick something he can dance to relatively easily.  His conversation with Phichit the other day pokes at the back of his mind, and immediately, he knows what song he wants to select.

It’s not that loud without a speaker to amplify it, but it doesn’t really need to be.  He’s listened to this song--the whole album, really--a million times and he knows the music intimately at this point, has memorized every harmony and every rest and where the orchestra swells and quiets to make the audience weep.

_Eliza!_

“I put myself back in the narrative,” Yuuri sings along quietly.  He doesn’t have the best singing voice, but he’s alone and doesn’t care how horrible he sounds.  “I stop wasting time on tears.  I live another fifty years.  It’s not enough!”

He’s loved Eliza Hamilton since the very first time he listened to the cast recording.  Sometimes, Yuuri wishes he could be more like her.  Stronger, more confident, able to be as courageous and as fiercely determined to accomplish his dreams.

But he’s not.  As it stands, he can barely find the mental strength to inform his parents that their son is sometimes their second daughter.  He wants to be able to move passed whatever is holding him back so he can tell his own story, as it were.  That's what he admires most about Eliza, that she could overcome her grief and anger and actually _do_ the things she set out to do, instead of wallowing in self-doubt like he is.

“In their eyes, I see you, Alexander,” he sings.  “I see you every time.  And when my time is up, have I done enough?--”  He spins as the music comes to a crescendo and then holds his pose with his arms above his head.  “--Will they tell your story?”

There’s a moment of silence from Eliza, and with a sigh, Yuuri closes his eyes and drops back down onto the flats of his feet.  “I can’t wait to see you again.  It’s only a matter of time.”

He doesn’t sing along to the rest of the song, just floats limply around the room not doing much of anything with a purpose, until the very last line.

_Who lives?  Who dies?  Who tells your story?_

When the song’s final chord ends, he’s sunk down to his knees and slumped forward, the hands splayed in front of him being the only thing keeping him upright.  He’s trying his damnedest not to cry, and honestly, he fails pretty quickly.

Suddenly, there’s soft clapping from behind him, and it almost gives him a heart attack.  He whirls around to see who it is as they begin to speak.  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’ve been putting that dance together in your head for a while now.”

“Minako-sensei!  I’m sorry!  I should have told you I was coming here, but I didn’t think.  I’m sorry, I’ll leave now.”

With a bemused smile, she walks towards him.  “It’s fine, Yuuri.  I gave you keys to this place for a reason, you know.”

Yuuri tries to get up but finds that he can’t.  Minako sits down next to him and puts an arm around his shoulders.  “That was a beautiful song.  Is it from a movie or something?”

“A musical,” he replies, leaning into her.  “On Broadway.”

She hums under her breath. “I see.”  When he doesn’t reply, she continues.  “Feel better?”

He nods.

“Good.”

He doesn’t know when they started rocking slowly side-to-side, or who started it, but it comforts him somewhat.  “Minako-sensei?”

“Yes?”

He fully intends to start a conversation about a completely different topic (namely, how she knew he was here, and if Viktor sent her to check up on him), but when he opens his mouth, the words seem to fall out on their own.  “I’m genderfluid.”

(Except he doesn’t know the Japanese for “genderfluid,” having only ever heard that word in English before, so what he actually says in the heat of the moment is that his gender is like water, and so she fantastically misunderstands him.  He has to break the hug and reach for his phone to google the correct translation.  Embarrassingly enough, it ends up being a pretty direct transliteration.)

He explains the concept a bit, tells her that he is sometimes a boy and sometimes a girl, and he can feel his pulse racing and his breathing sharpen as he stops speaking.  

Minako is smiling when she says, simply, “That explains a lot.”

Yuuri looks up at her.  He hadn’t expected that at all.  “...really?”

“Sure.”

Nothing about this has gone in the way he expected.  Yuuri just sits there, stewing in a slightly confused silence as Minako chuckles and ruffles his hair. “I haven’t scared you, have I?  I only say that because I’ve known you for a long time, Yuuri.  That’s it.  I know you’re probably trying to find some deeper meaning or whatever, but it’s that simple.  You’ve been dancing with me for the vast majority of your life, after all, since you were just a tiny thing.  And looking back now, things that seemed a little odd or out of place at the time make more sense.”

He wipes his eyes to try and stay his tears, but it has quite the opposite effect.  Her words haven’t upset him.  In fact, this whole conversation has been more comforting than he knows how to explain.  But now that the “danger” of it all has passed, he has to process all of the fear and anxiety that ultimately didn’t come to fruition, all the confusion and doubt he’d unconsciously harbored.  The only two ways he knows how to deal with that is either to dance or to cry, and his feet are already sore.

So he cries, and Minako holds him, and once he’s sobbed every ounce of surplus liquid out of his body, he sits back on his own strength and tries to gather the courage to look her in the eye again.  He’s never been so emotional in front of her before.  He wonders if it will scare her away.

Thankfully, she saves him the trouble of breaking the ice again, rubbing his back in soft, even circles.  “Feel better?”

He nods.

“Good.”  She smiles at him. “Let’s get you home, kid.”

***

No one comments on his appearance when he gets back.  He goes straight to his room, curls up in bed alone without taking a bath or even changing his clothes, and pretends to be asleep when Viktor joins him.

He feels a familiar dip in the bed followed by a whispered, “No, no, Makka.  No puppy cuddles tonight.  Papa Yuuri needs space right now.”

Viktor has never referred to him that way before, and for some reason, it makes him want to cry again.

***

A few days later, he feels a shift.  

He’s promised to help Mari with a few chores on his day off from practice, and as the morning goes on, it becomes fairly obvious to him that he's a girl.  Other than simply having the innate knowledge of his own body, he's recognized certain patterns in his behavior over the years that accompany his femininity, like the way he holds himself differently and how he walks more lightly and even how his speech patterns change somewhat.  Back in Detroit, Phichit used to be able to tell when he was a boy and when he was a girl based on those differences in his body language.  

Later on, when he felt more comfortable with his gender, he would try to present differently as well.  He never really looked 100% feminine on girl days, but Phichit and YouTube taught him how to do some basic make-up tricks so his face look softer, and he bought cute clothes, casual dresses and a floral-print bra and a dozen pairs of delicate, lacy panties.  (Thank god for online shopping, or else he might never have purchased any of it.)

All of which, he reminds himself with a frown, are packed in a box by themselves that he'd shoved into the back of his closet as soon as possible after his things had arrived from America.

But oh well, there's nothing he can really do about it right now anyway.  He's folding laundry with his sister at the moment, and he's far too invested in the conversation at hand to excuse himself just to change his underwear.

Mari was telling him about a concert she had gone to with some of her friends a few months ago, and it’s really nice to see her so fired up about something.  He hasn't really had the chance to talk to her like this in _years_ , and he's missed it a lot.

“And to be honest,” she said, “I felt a little silly doing it, but _Takao_ was _right in front of me_!  Oh, I could have died happy right then and there.”

Yuuri laughs.  “I can imagine.”

“I was probably channeling teenage you thinking about meeting Viktor Nikiforov one day.”

“Maybe if you're as lucky as I am, you'll be engaged to Takao one day,” he says, and he purposefully curls his hand so his engagement ring glints in the sunlight.

“Show off,” she mutters, trying to hold back her laughter.  After a moment, she sighs and looks him in the eye.  “I'm really glad you're back home, Yuuri.  I missed you a lot.  I missed...talking to you like this, and having you around, and eating dinner with you, and everything else.”

“I missed you, too,” he replies.  It's not easy for him to talk about being home again, especially knowing he and Viktor are planning on leaving again in a few months, but he wants to enjoy what he has in front of him while it lasts.

“We should...do something fun together,” Mari says.  “Just you and me.”

“I...would actually like that a lot.”

"I don't really care what.  It could be anything.  You can pick what we do.  I just want to spend more time with you.”

“Me too,” he replies, and that's when it hits him.

He's been using _watashi_ during this whole conversation.

He glances up at Mari, the panic likely plain as day in his face, and a chill runs through his entire body.  His heart skips several beats.  It's suddenly difficult to draw a deep breath.  His fingers feel numb and rubbery. He drops the towel he'd been holding and just stares at her.

“You finally noticed, huh?” Mari says, her face unreadable.  Or maybe it isn't.  Maybe he's just too busy trying to figure out what he should say to her and he can't devote brainpower to interpreting her expression.  She scratches at the side of her neck.  “I wasn't going to bring it up.  You've always said ‘boku’ before, so it's a little weird to hear you use ‘watashi’, but...”

"Mari,” he whispers, because he doesn't have the energy or the courage to project his voice any louder than that.

“I'll get used to it,” she adds with a nod.

He can't even bring himself to look at her anymore, but he can feel her gaze drilling a hole into the side of his face.  He stares at his hands in his lap and tries not to pick at his fingernails too much.   (He suddenly has the urge to paint them.  He doesn't have any nail polish, though, so he'll have to buy some.)

“Mari,” he repeats, a little louder this time.  He has to clear his throat before he can continue.  “Sometimes I'm a boy, and sometimes I'm a girl.”

She nods.  “Okay.”

“I'm a girl right now.”

“Okay.”

Yuuri curls his legs up into his chest and rests his chin on his knees.  He feels like he should say something else, but he can't figure out what it should be.  His gut instinct is to apologize, but he's not sure why.  Or even what he would be apologizing for.  It's never stopped him before, though, but he knows that's a function of anxiety.  It's a defense mechanism to avoid the psychological stress of confrontation.  Out of all the apologies he's made in his life, he sometimes wonders what percentage of them have been motivated by genuine remorse over his mistakes versus by his mental illness.

“I'm sorry,” one of them says, and he's honestly quite surprised to notice that it's not _him_.

“For what?” he asks.

“I made you uncomfortable,” she explains.  “I didn't mean to.  I was curious, but I shouldn't have pressed you.”

"No, no, it's fine.  I've been...trying to tell you and Mom and Dad for a while.  I couldn't find an opening, and this was as good as any, I guess.”  He picks up the towel he'd been trying to fold a moment ago and gives it another go.  He's still shaking a little.  “I tried to bring it up at dinner the other night, but I freaked out before I could.”

“I see.”  Mari also returns to the task at hand.  Sometimes it's easier to talk about things when his hands have a distraction, and it's comforting on some level when people are willing to follow suit while engaging with him.  Mari has always done that, and he's glad to see that she hasn't forgotten how to deal with him after he's been on the other side of the world for half a decade.

“Hey, Yuuri?  Should I...address you differently when you're a girl?  Do you want to be called by a different name or something?”

His fingers worry an imperfection in the seam of the sheet he’s holding.  “Um...not really?  I still like the name Yuuri.  But it would be nice if you…”  He feels a blush blossoming on his face, because even the thought of it makes him happy.  “...called me your sister and stuff like that.”

“Sure, of course.”

He smiles.  He’s handled talking with Mari better than Minako.  It probably helped that he wasn't already in a panicked state this time.  His emotions are still running strong, but at least he isn't crying.  That's always an accomplishment.  

Absentmindedly, he reaches into the basket for something else to fold and finds that it's empty.  “I guess we're done,” he says, talking about the laundry.

“For now, yeah,” she replies, not talking about the laundry.

***

He still worries inordinately about telling his parents.  It's strange: he knows that every bad thing his anxiety imagines for him is so out of the realm of possibility that it's laughable to put stock in them, and yet he does.  His thoughts become a constant cycle of his brain saying, “But what if _this_ happen?  What would you do then?”, to which he responds with perfectly reasonable and rational arguments why either it wouldn't happen in the first place or how he already has a plan for it.  But there is _always_ a flaw to be found with something, even if it's only telling himself that he puts too _little_ faith in his own abilities and too _much_ faith in the kindness of others.   Nothing is ever resolved.  It's a never-ending chain reaction that exhausts him to keep up with.

Viktor asks him if he's okay.  “You've paused and unpaused your game at least a dozen times in the past few minutes,” he comments.

Yuuri meets his eyes and notices how much tension he's holding in his shoulders and upper back.  He tries to relax, but it only makes him sore.

“I'm fine,” he lies, trying to remember what his strategy for this part of the game usually is.  Within five seconds of resuming, his character is dead.

Viktor chuckles at him.  “Maybe you need a break, _solnyshko_.”

“I'm _fine_ ,” he insists as he defiantly restarts the encounter.  He discards his normal stealth approach and opts for an all-out, in-your-face, guns-blazing attack, and an enemy soldier shoots him from behind with an assault rifle.  

He's not normally one to lose his cool over a video game, but this time he shouts and swears and throws his controller on the ground.  Thankfully, it doesn't break.  Viktor bends down to pick it up and sits next to Yuuri on the edge of the bed.  He doesn't say anything, just gives the item back to him with one hand and smoothes the other over Yuuri’s hair.  Yuuri feels his shoulders creep down a bit more, and although he doesn't really _want_ to keep playing, it's been the only thing stopping Viktor from asking him why he seems so out of sorts lately.  So he does.

His fiancé reclines beside him and presses a kiss to his shoulder.  His fingers play at the hem of Yuuri’s shirt, pushing it up a bit to stroke the skin over his stomach.  In the spring, when their more intense training is on hold, Yuuri will gain a little weight like he always does, and Viktor will dote on his slightly increased plumpness.  He'll nap using Yuuri’s chest and stomach as a pillow.  He'll hug Yuuri from behind and let his hands linger when he draws away.  And when they're alone in the privacy of their own apartment in St. Petersburg, away from the thin walls and prying eyes of Hasetsu, he'll kiss and suck at the insides of Yuuri’s thighs and sing their praises to no end, going on about how such soft, inviting flesh can hide away those beautiful, powerful muscles.  And who even knows what he'll say about Yuuri’s ass, because that's when Viktor gets a bit starry-eyed and incoherent.  

(He's not used to having his body worshipped like Viktor does, but he loves every single second of it.)

It's easier to be a girl in the off-season, he's found.  When he puts on weight, it's easier to feel like his body has a curve or a silhouette.  He has something to work with, after all.  He can mold himself into a better shape if he wants, though truthfully he doesn't bother most of the time.  But when the mood or the occasional bout of dysphoria strikes him, he can pour himself into layers of spandex and nylon to convince his body to look more feminine.  Viktor’s attentions will probably help, too.  It always made him feel better when Phichit called him cute.

Yuuri dies again, in the exact same place and manner as the previous few deaths, and he's so angry about it that he closes the game and shuts down his PlayStation without saving.  He sets the controller to the side and wrenches off his glasses, tossing them in the general direction of his feet.  He doesn't hear them hit the floor, and that's honestly the best he can hope for at this point.

Viktor cuddles into him, hooking one of his leg over Yuuri’s, and sighs.  “Ready to talk about it yet?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Viktor's hand is still stroking his belly, and in the few minutes of silence that follows, the sensation manages to calm and relax him more than he thought it would.

Viktor breaks the silence first, his voice quiet and serious.  “You are the one thing in life you can control.”

“...I know.”

"You are...inimitable.  You are an original.”

He nods.   

“You're not falling behind or running late.”

He nods again, more slowly, beginning to get a little suspicious.  “Viktor…”

“You're not standing still, you're lying in wait!”

The penny finally drops, and he levels a flat look at his fiancé.  “Viktor, that's ‘Wait For It’.”

He has the decency to look sheepish.  “Well, yes, but...it made you feel better, right?”

It has and it hasn’t.  He smiles so that maybe he can fool Viktor into thinking everything’s okay.  Perhaps then he’ll stop trying to cheer him up.  While well-intentioned, Viktor’s attempts to lighten the mood are a bit heavy-handed and not exactly what Yuuri needs at the moment.  He doesn’t really know what he needs, to be quite frank, except to summon up the courage to tell his parents everything he wants-- _needs_ \--to tell them.

He must be tensing up again, because Viktor’s hand moves up to his chest and he presses his lips to the side of Yuuri's neck.  Damn the man, he knows how weak in the knees neck kisses make him.  Yuuri melts a little and curves his body towards Viktor’s.  His fiancé’s mouth curls against his skin, and warm, soft fingers glance past his nipple.

Yuuri swears again.  “That's not fair,” he whispers with a smile.

Viktor chuckles in response.  “Can't help it that your weak points are easy to exploit.”

“Jackass,” he mutters lovingly in between muffled laughter.

Viktor lavishes his neck with more kisses, and even though Yuuri recognizes this as another rather unsubtle attempt to relax him, he at least knows that this method seems to actually _work_ most of the time.  He tugs Viktor’s head toward his mouth; maybe getting off will chill him out enough to talk things over.

After a while, Viktor pulls away a little.  “Are you okay with this?”

Yuuri’s lips feel swollen from kissing, and a bubble of laughter rolls out of him.  “Yeah, of course.”

Viktor smiles back, a soft blush spreading across his cheeks.  “Good.  I know you would tell me if you weren't...if you couldn't…”

"I would,” Yuuri says, trying to coax Viktor back into kissing him.  “I _do_ tell you when I'm not up for it.”

His partner sighs, relieved by his words.  “I know.  It must seem silly.  It's just…”  (Yuuri knows what he's about to say, and they've had this conversation before, they have it nearly every time they have sex, and Yuuri’s getting sick of it.)  “...I've never had an asexual partner before, so….”

Yuuri lets his arms drop to either side of his body.  “Viktor, I love you and I appreciate your concern, but either suck me off or go away.”

An awkward beat of silence passes between, Viktor's eyes wide with surprise and Yuuri instantly regretting his words.  He's not normally so direct about things, and for a tense half-second, he’s frightened that he's done something wrong, that Viktor will take offense to his words or his tone and refuse to go further.  It would be okay if he did.  Yuuri wouldn't really mind.

Instead, a snort of laughter erupts from the man lying on top of him, and he pushes up Yuuri’s shirt so he can press a kiss to his chest.  “Yes, sir, Mr. Katsuki,” he says, his tone partly serious and partly sarcastic.

“Sorry,” Yuuri mutters.  His face is bright red.

“It's fine,” says Viktor from the general area of his stomach.  His hands fiddle with the band of Yuuri's boxers as he kisses his hip bone.  (Viktor is, unsurprisingly enough, a tease, but Yuuri kind of likes it.)  “I like it when you order me around.”

This is blatantly untrue, but Yuuri lets it slide for now.  Viktor teases him through the thin fabric of his underwear, his breath hot against Yuuri's sensitive flesh, and he tries to lose himself in the sensations.  Maybe if he can shove the small, negative voice inside him into a dark corner long enough, he'll even be able to really enjoy himself.

Viktor is not exactly inexperienced with sex.  Quite the opposite.  Yuuri knows that he's had a number of partners in the past, from several long term boyfriends to a few more casual flings, and that wasn't even counting whatever kind of off-and-on thing he's had with Christophe.  He doesn't care about them, so long as Viktor doesn't suddenly start caring about them in that way again either.  The only possible exception is, of course, Chris, but they always tell him beforehand if they have plans.  (Maybe he should feel ashamed that he's okay with his fiancé occasionally fucking another person, but it's _Chris_ , and he lives half a world away anyway, and besides that, Yuuri trusts them both.)  

Viktor can work his magic and pull moans and yelps and screams out of Yuuri if he wishes.  They're familiar enough with each other that he doesn't have to ask what he likes or what he can and can't do, although he still does at times for courtesy's sake.  Viktor's mouth can make Yuuri's mind go blank, make him forget every word of English he's ever learned, can reduce him to communicating only by grunting and tugging on fine silver hair.

Viktor knows what he's doing.  Viktor knows Yuuri's body language and when he wants him to stop or to keep going.  Viktor always makes sure that they both have fun and enjoy it when they have sex.  He's _really_ good at it.  Tonight is no different, and in no time flat, he's got Yuuri begging and digging his nails into his scalp.  For a millisecond before he comes, Yuuri can almost understand what sexual attraction is.

But then his orgasm hits him and is as oddly  disappointing as it's ever been, and he remembers why he’s never really actively sought out sex.  It's fun when he's doing it with somebody he cares about, like Viktor or even Phichit back in the day, but he can't really justify the effort of it on a casual basis when the payoff always leaves him feeling strange, half-empty and unsatisfied.

On the upside, though, he's pretty thoroughly relaxed now.  He feels like he would have trouble balancing if he tried to get up, like a newborn deer trying to stand for the first time.  His heart is racing and he's not quite caught his breath yet when Viktor comes back up and lays beside him.  His erection is pressing against Yuuri's leg, and when he can move, he turns on his side and wraps boneless fingers around it.  Viktor runs one hand over his chest, down his side, and latches onto his hip.  To be quite honest, Viktor does most of the work.  Yuuri tries to keep up, but the angle is making it a bit difficult.  He makes up for it by showering the man with nips and kisses.

After Viktor gets off and floats his way back to Earth again, he apologizes.  “I didn't tell you before I came.  I know you don't like…” He dips his head quickly in the direction of Yuuri's hand.  “... _that_.”

“It's fine,” he replies honestly, but his hand hangs in the air at an awkward angle so none of the bedclothes gets dirty.  “I'll just...go wash my hands.”

Viktor whines at the idea of Yuuri getting out of bed and offers his discarded shirt instead.  (When had Viktor taken off his shirt...?)  It's not ideal, but he's not exactly keen on leaving the room either.

Soon enough, they're curled up into one another, and Yuuri feels warm and safe and relatively calm.  With his face buried into Viktor's chest so he can avoid any painful, panic-inducing eye contact, he asks, “Can we talk about it now?”

He feels Viktor's smile against his scalp.  “Sure.  What's bothering you, _solnyshko_?”

Yuuri isn't exactly prone to word vomit, but once he gets going tonight, he doesn't stop.  Can't stop.  He almost feels physically ill because he's scared of how many of his deepest, darkest emotions he's sharing in rapid succession, but he's powerless to stop himself.  He _tries_.  He tries to give Viktor openings to express himself or to perhaps make a suggestion or something else, but before his fiancé can even draw breath or formulate a response, Yuuri starts up again and attacks the thought from a new angle.

He's started crying at some point, though he doesn't really remember when, and soon he's made himself too agitated to keep talking.  He can't force out words in between the sobs anymore; he can feel himself shaking, but as if it's happening to a nearby stranger and not actually to him.  Viktor prods at him until he's sitting upright against the headboard and whispers something to him.  Yuuri doesn't really hear it.  His ears are ringing too loudly.

And then he leaves, and Yuuri is _convinced_ that this has been the final straw, that Viktor is no longer willing to put up with his hysterics anymore.  Yuuri twists his engagement ring around his finger and wonders what he'll do with two gold bands after Viktor returns to Russia.  Sell them, most likely.  He'll need the money, after all, when he quits skating.  He hasn't really got any other marketable skills or talents.  Maybe he could work at the Ice Castle and teach lessons?  Yuuko would probably put in a good word for him.

It's only when Viktor reenters the room (carrying something, but his eyes refuse to focus enough to see what it is.) that Yuuri parses what the man had said to him before he left.  He looks again as Viktor gets closer and spies a glass of water and a small prescription bottle.  

‘ _I'm going to bring you your medicine, Yuuri_.’

He unscrews the bottle and swallows the pill more by rote than with any conscious effort, but the action itself soothes him.  He's taken his medication.  He knows he'll feel a bit better soon.  (To be fair, he should have recognized his emotional state for what it was and gone for his pills straight away.  But he didn't, and as it is, he only took his meds because Viktor belatedly realized on his own that Yuuri was in the middle of a full-blown anxiety attack, but he can't change that now.  He has to do better next time.)

Viktor sits beside him and puts an arm around his shoulders.  He asks him if he's okay.  Yuuri shrugs.  Then nods.  He leans against Viktor and sighs.  

“Let's talk to your parents tomorrow.  We don't have any plans, so if you need to rest afterward, you can.”

"Not tomorrow,” he croaks.  His mouth is dry, and it feels like there's sand in his throat.

“Why not?”  There is objectively nothing negative or accusatory in his tone, but Yuuri’s mind supplies the negativity and the accusation on it's own.  Probably because there's no good reason why they can't do it tomorrow, and they both know it.

Yuuri just shrugs.  “Not tomorrow,” he repeats.

Viktor brushes his hand over Yuuri’s hair.  “If not tomorrow, when?”  Yuuri doesn't respond, and Viktor continues.  “ _Lubov moya_ , I can't let you continue avoiding the subject if this is what it's doing to you.  So let's decide a definite day and time and stick to it no matter what.  Then it will be over, and you won't have to worry about it, right?”

He will always worry.  Hasn't Viktor learned that yet?  But Yuuri knows he's right, however much he hates to admit it.  “Tomorrow,” he mutters.  “Before lunch.  Onsen afterwards.”

"Okay.”

"Katsudon for a reward,” he says, pushing his luck, and the beginnings of a smile ghost his lips.

Viktor chuckles.  “I'm sure your mother will push a bowl in front of you regardless of any objections from me.”

Yuuri falls asleep soon after, succumbing to the pull of the drug in his system, and for that, he's thankful.  He only takes this particular anxiety medication on an ‘as needed’ basis because it makes him lethargic.  He can't use it during competitions for obvious reasons.  But for times like right now, when he's status/post meltdown but can still feel the panic gnawing at the fringes of his mind, it's nice that his medicine can numb him enough to let him sleep it off.

He has a long and potentially even more stressful day ahead of him, and he'll take whatever kind of rest he can get tonight.

***

The next morning, Mari draws him aside and asks him if he's okay.  She apparently heard him crying last night.  He feels better now than he did, so he gives her what he hopes is a convincing smile and tells her he's fine.

"Good,” she replies with a nod.  She musses his hair with both hands and grins at him.  “I'd be a terrible sibling if I let my little sister stay sad on such a beautiful day!”

Yuuri's fake smile has never turned into a genuine one faster than it does in that moment.

***

When they're finally able to wrangle his parents down, they tackle the subject of Russia first.  Viktor introduces the topic, explaining that he plans to compete in the coming season as well as coach Yuuri, and that in order to do that, it would be best to spend half the year or more in Russia.  Yuuri is quick to add that they do plan on spending the off-season months in Hasetsu, but that they've been looking for their own apartment.  The banquet room Viktor has been staying in might be unused, but it's not nearly private enough.

He's nervous about this part of the conversation, because his parents have always supported his dreams even if it hurt them to do so.  They would just smile and wish him well.  He spent five years in Detroit without coming home, and now that he's been back for a year, he's already talking about leaving again.  They must think he hates living in Hasetsu.

His parents take a moment to process everything they're hearing, and his father is the first to speak.  “That seems the simplest solution, yes.”

His mother gives him a knowing grin.  “As long as you don't run off and get married in Russia without your old mother, I'll be happy.”

Yuuri and Viktor laugh through their protests.  The plan was always to get married in Japan, but they haven't really discussed specific details yet.  Viktor would probably want something elaborate and expensive and _extra_ as all hell, but Yuuri couldn't imagine dropping that kind of money on what boiled down to signing a legal contract.  His parents might want him to have a more traditional ceremony.  They haven't talked about it yet.

But that was a discussion for another time.

“You won't...be angry if I left again?” Yuuri asks.  His voice is small and trembling, and it must be obvious how frightened he is of asking that question.

“Why would we be angry?” his father asks.

His mother folds one of his hands inside both of hers.  “Yuuri, if you're asking if we'll miss you, of course we will!  You're our son!”

The last word pricks at him, but he tries not to let his body language show it too much.  They'd address that later.

“But your father and I both know how much you love figure skating,” she continues, “and we want you to do your best while you're still able.  And when you retire, if you decide to stay in Japan, we will still be here for you.”

“Children grow up and leave home,” his father adds.  “It happens every day.  It's bittersweet but inevitable.  I feel proud as a parent to see you making your own way in the world.”

Yuuri nods.  He knows they're just trying to help him not feel guilty about this decision, but their kindness only makes it worse.  “What if--” he begins, but his throat closes up on him suddenly and painfully, and he has to swallow a few times before he can speak again.  “What if what happened with Vicchan...happens with _you_?”

A silence stills the room as the other three realize his meaning.  Viktor runs his hand over his back and leans into him and kisses his forehead, murmuring his name and an empty reassurance that everything will be alright and nothing bad will happen.  He wants push him away and scream at him that bad things happen all the time, but his mother, still holding his hand, beats him to it.

“What if you walk outside and get run over by a bus?  What if Mari slips and hits her head on a rock and goes into a coma?  What if Viktor falls during practice and breaks his back?  Any of those things _could_ happen.  But we take as much precautions as we're able to, we're as safe as we can be, and go on with our lives.  That's all we can do, Yuuri.   Besides,” she adds with a wink, “your mother is tougher than she looks, you know.  I'm as healthy as a horse, and I don't intend to let anything take me away from you just yet.”

“Don't let your anxiety scare you, love,” Viktor whispers.

“We'll just...have to make every moment count, won't we?” his father says.  He's never been that great at handling Yuuri when his anxiety flares up, but he tries so hard to understand that the doubts and fears and constant catastrophizing aren't just excuses or histrionics.  They all feel _so real_ to him, even if they're next to impossible.

Yuuri nods, content to let the subject go for now.  He's put his fears out into the open, and in his experience, they become a lot more manageable when other people are aware of them.  He'll still worry, of course, when they're in St. Petersburg, but there's always Skype or a regular phone call.  It'll be okay.  And it's not as far away as Detroit was, so he could feasibly fly back in a reasonable amount of time, right?  It'll be okay.

Maybe if he keeps repeating it, he'll start believing it.

He's still leaning slightly on Viktor when he clears his throat.  “I think Yuuri also had something else he wanted to discuss…?”

Instinctively, because he's a coward, he whispers, “N-no, I didn't.”

His parents are staring at him now, confused.  Viktor tries again.  “Yuuri, we talked about this….”

Yuuri recedes from his fiancé’s side and stands his ground.  “Not right now,” he begs, wondering if everyone can hear how loud, how fast, and how hard his heart is beating.

“We talked about this,” Viktor repeats, mouth set in a frown.

“Please.”

“Yuuri.”

“Viktor, I can't--”

"Yes, you can.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, letting their individual stubborn streaks battle it out, until his mother speaks up.  “Is something wrong, Yuuri?”

“Nothing's wrong,” Viktor answers for him, despite it being plain to see that _everything_ is wrong.

His father asks, “You're not _sick_ , are you?”, and Yuuri knows that tone of voice.  It's the same tone his father adopts whenever someone is in the hospital, the same inflection he uses whenever he has to say the name of a Big, Scary Medical Condition.  He's heard his father talk about cancer and heart attacks and emergency surgeries with that voice.  And even though Yuuri _is_ technically sick (even if it is just his brain), it's totally different from the conclusion his father has jumped to.

“No, no, no!” Yuuri rushes to reassure him.  “It's nothing like that.  It's...”  Concern is written all over his parents’ faces, and his guilt is building up quite quickly for making them worry.  He sighs and breaks eye contact, looking down at his hands.  “It's nothing.”

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Viktor all but growls.

He turns towards his fiancé with a scowl.  “I thought you were the one who said it was my choice?!”

“And _you_ were the one who insisted you wanted to do this!”

“Maybe I changed my mind!”

"In the span of twelve hours?”

He doesn't have a reply to that--not one that Viktor will accept, at any rate--and so he looks down at his hands again.  He starts picking at his fingernails, which he knows he shouldn't be, but it hurts and that's kind of what he wants.  Viktor sets one hand over top of Yuuri's in an attempt to stop him.  He does stop, but once Viktor takes his hand away, he picks up again.  He hears Viktor make a sound in the back of his throat, but he opts to ignore it.

"Do it quick,” Viktor suggests.  “Like a band-aid.”

Logically, there's no real reason why those six particular words should make him so angry.  It's not a bad idea.  It would be much easier in the long run if Yuuri could simply say the words and let whatever might happen happen.  Not that anything is _going to_ happen besides maybe that his parents ask for clarification regarding specific terminology and its practical application, but that's beside the point.  

In a moment when Yuuri needs support from his fiancé more than anything else, it's a slap in the face to hear that phrase.  There are times when Yuuri will realize they don't really know that much about each other in comparison to most other couples.  They met just over a year ago, and they're already engaged.  It's scary to think about how fast everything has happened.  So he doesn't, until moments like these remind him that, although he loves Viktor Nikiforov with all his heart and wants to stay by his side forever, he doesn't know Yuuri as well as others do and can be a real asshole sometimes.

Yuuri whirls around to face Viktor, frowning deeply and nostrils flared.  He can almost feel the steam rolling off his face as it turns an ugly shade of red.  “I have never ripped a band-aid off like that ever in my entire life!  It hurts too much to do it that way, you bastard!”

“Well then,” his mother interrupts, calmly standing up.  “I think some tea is in order, don't you?  Yuuri dear, come help me.”

He sees the action for what it is--a means to separate him and Viktor momentarily so tempers can cool.  It's not exactly unwarranted.  So he goes into the kitchen with her, and as soon as she's started the water to boil and they're ‘away from the menfolk’ (her words), she opens her arms to him.  

He has to bend a bit awkwardly to hug her, but it's worth it.  Instantly, he feels warm and safe and loved, just as he has from every other hug she's ever given him.  There is nothing in this world that comforts him quite like being in his mother's arms.

“Now, Yuuri,” she murmurs against the side of his head, “I don't know what this is all about, but whatever it is, it seems very important and very scary at the same time.  It's alright if you can't say it right now.  Your father and I are patient; we can wait.”

Yuuri pulls away from her hug and tries to meet her eyes, but it sends a shock through  his body and makes his throat clench, so he looks away again.  Leaning against a nearby countertop, he sighs.  “I'm worried that…if I don't say it now, I will never be able to.”

She busies herself with preparing the teapot and the tea leaves and arranging everything on a tray.  She looks distracted, but he knows she's listening to every word he says.  “Is it something bad?”

“No….”

“So… something good, then?”

He shrugs.  “I don't think it's necessarily either one.  It just… _is_.”

“You're not pregnant, are you?” she asks, so calmly and evenly that for a moment he has trouble distinguishing if she's being serious or not.  The absurdity of the question boggles his mind.  He wonders vaguely why on earth she would even ask him that, but he puts it down to being an attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

“No, Mom, I'm not pregnant,” he replies, trying to subdue his grin.

With one hand flat on her chest, she heaves a (very overdramatic) sigh of relief.  “Thank goodness!  I was so worried!”

He's not going to get a better opportunity than this, and he knows it.  His pulse picks up as he battles with the jumble of words on the tip of his tongue.  “On that subject, though…”

The kettle whistles, and his mother goes about her tea-making ritual.  “Hmm?”

“It's related to what I wanted to tell you.   Kind of, in a way.”

“Oh, is it?”

“Yeah.”  Her back is turned to him now.  It won't be for long: either she'll finish what she's doing and expectantly turn back to him or he'll say his piece and she'll face him to give a reaction.  He doesn't have long.  

Maybe there’s something to be said for the band-aid method after all.

“I was in Detroit for a while, you know,” he begins, because he doesn't know where else to start.  “And I grew up a lot there in five years.  I was only eighteen when I left, and there was so much I didn't know about...well, a lot of things, really, but even about myself.   _Especially_ about myself.”

He pauses, trying to get his thoughts in order.  Usually he would have rehearsed this kind of speech for days on end in his head, but he's been too nervous about it to face it head-on.  So he's floundering, flying by the seat of his pants, and he has no idea if what's going to come out of his mouth will sound in any way like he wants it to.

“I…  When I met Phichit--he’s trans, you know, and he was the first really close friend I made in Detroit, so I didn't want to say or do anything to hurt him.  I asked him questions and I looked up stuff online, and I started learning about a lot of things that I had never encountered before because of him, and…”  He hesitated slightly, his brain suddenly refusing to form a sentence.  It felt like hours before he spoke again, though in reality, it was likely only a few seconds.  “I felt like maybe some of it...applied to me.”

A quiet “I see,” is the only response he gets.  At this point, she's just adjusting the order of the items on her tray to stall for time.  Watching her fidget while he attempts to open up and share intimate details about himself is irritating him a little, even though he also knows it's exactly what he needed to feel comfortable enough to start talking.  He needs to get this over with before he starts getting too worked up.

"Mom, I'm...I know you probably think of me as your son, but that's not really...I mean, I am, but just not all the time.  It's...called being genderfluid.”

“I know,” says his mother.  She finally turns around, and she's smiling at him.  

"Oh.  Really?”

The inflection in his voice turns up a bit more than he meant it to, and she gives him the stink eye.  “Do you really think you young people are the only ones who know how to use the internet?”

He couldn't help but look at her askance.  “But how--?”

“Sometimes you hear an unfamiliar word on television and want to know what it means,” she explains with a causal roll of one shoulder.

“Oh.  Right….”

She smiles up at him and pats his arm lightly.  “Thank you for trusting me, Yuuri.  But...may I ask a question?”  She waits for his assent before continuing.  “Who am I talking to right now?  My son or…?”

Yuuri tries his best to stave off the pink spreading across his face.  “Your daughter,” he whispers, so quietly that he can barely hear himself.

“My daughter,” she repeats, and Yuuri’s heart is already leaping with joy just to hear her say those words even before she grins at him and adds, “I'm honored to finally meet you.”

He couldn't answer her.  His eyes are filling up with tears even as the stretch of his smile makes his face sore.  Unconsciously, he puts his hands over his eyes to stop him crying, but it doesn't really work.  His glasses slip a bit and he jerks to catch them before they fall purely as a reflex.  The motion sends them flying through the air, blurry from motion and his astigmatism, and he grabs blindly at the space where he thinks his glasses probably are.

They are, unfortunately, not there, but his mother manages to save them.  He doesn't bother to put them back on yet, because he's still half-crying and doesn't want to have to clean them twice.  Instead, he lays them on the counter beside him and tries to calm himself down.  The tea is probably stone cold by now, sitting forgotten not 5 feet away, but that doesn't matter.  

Tea can be remade; he isn't sure if the same can be said of him.

Yuuri looks up at the ceiling and blinks rapidly, praying it would help.  He's never liked crying in front of his parents.  It makes him feel even more out of control, or like he's embarrassing or disappointing them in some way.  And now especially, when he's only crying because of his mother's kindness.  She must be taking his display of emotion as inherently disrespectful.

He feels a hand on his arm, thumb gently moving back and forth across his skin.  “Yuuri, are you alright?  Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” he manages, hiding behind his hands again.  “I’m fine.”

Between the tears and the fact that he's still not wearing his glasses, he's practically blind, so he doesn't see his mother when she moves.  He hears the soft scuffs of her shoes against the floor, the small grunt she lets out when she picks something up, and then the clunk of something wooden hitting the ground near his feet.  He looks up and is surprised to see that the footstool his parents keep in the kitchen is now in front of him.  His mother climbs it and cups his face in her hands.

“Yuuri,” she says softly, “are you crying because you're sad?”

He shakes his head.  “I'm not sad.  I feel...relieved.”

“Good,” she replies, smiling at him.  

“I've wanted to tell you ever since I came home,” he whispers.  He doesn't trust his voice not to crack if he talks any louder.  “But I was really depressed at first, and I didn't know what to do.  I had to figure out whether or not I wanted to retire.  And then Viktor came along, and everything happened so quickly after that, and once I had time to breathe again, I just…”  He sighed heavily.  “I was scared, and I didn't know how to say it.”

“It's always been hard for you to open up to people,” she says, “especially to the ones you know care a great deal about you.  You're aware of how much they can hurt you if they know those deep things about you.”

 _Everyone is aware of that_ , he wants to say.  He doesn't say it.  She's just trying to help.

She hugs him again, and it feels so much better this time now that she's basically the same height as he is.  He expects himself to stay crying again when she wraps him up in her arms, but he doesn't.  Instead, he feels the smile emerging onto his face and, to his genuine surprise, he feels a chuckle bubble up from his chest.

"I'm sorry I made such an ordeal out of this,” he says.

“You didn't,” she assures him, running her fingers over his hair.  

“I did, though.  Dad probably thinks I only have six months to live or something.  It was way too melodramatic.”

She doesn't respond to him immediately, but as she takes a breath to say something, they're interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming near them.  Yuuri pulls away from her and sees the beautiful, ethereal, breathtaking, _stupidly gorgeous_ face of the man he loves more than anything else in the world.

“Is everything okay?” he asks quietly.  

Yuuri nods.  He sees Viktor's hand moving at his side, fingers curling and relaxing at odd intervals.  Viktor wants to touch him but he isn't sure if a display of affection is welcome.  He's always been a very physical person, and not just with Yuuri.  Viktor is very open about the love he feels for his friends and family, and he's never been shy of showing it in whatever manner might strike him in the moment.  It's mainly a cultural difference, he suspects, and Viktor does nothing by halves.  It doesn't bother Yuuri in the slightest under normal circumstances, and in point of fact, he revels in Viktor's attentions.

But sometimes when he's upset, he can't even stand the thought of being touched.  Today is not one of those days.

“Is the tea ready?” he asks, glancing over at the abandoned tray.  In all likelihood, he doesn't give a damn about the tea, but it's nice that he's keeping up appearances at least.

His mother finally descends her step stool and returns to her tea things.  “I'll make a new pot.  You boys--er, you two go and sit back down if you like; it won't take long.”

As she sets about her work, Viktor approaches him.  Yuuri reaches out for his hand, and Viktor immediately lifts it to his lips and kisses his knuckles.  “Did you…?” he begins in English.

“Yeah.”

Viktor smiles, and as always, his happiness is infectious.  “That's good!  I'm so proud of you, Yuuri!  So...just your dad now, right?”

His father, a man who still refuses to own a cellphone and who has only just realized that the entirety of the human experience and all of mankind's amassed knowledge is at his fingertips, so long as he asks Google the right questions, takes a bit longer to process what he's being told.  To his credit, he seems to readily grasp that Yuuri is a girl, but he misunderstands the aspect of fluidity.  His father is by no means stupid, but he's likely just as uninformed as Yuuri had been before he lived in Detroit, if not moreso.  

At first, he asks if Yuuri is like HANA, a very famous pop star who is a transwoman.  His father loves her to pieces, to the point that he owns every CD she's ever made, including that obscure one that no one remembers from before her solo debut, when she was still with her old, short-lived (and frankly, rather mediocre) all-girl group.  It didn't surprise him in the least that the first connection his father made would be to her.  

Yuuri’s instinct is to say no, because he has never personally felt as aligned with “trans” as he has with “genderqueer”.  But the comparison isn't exactly wrong either, in a certain sense.

“Yes and no,” he says honestly.  “HANA is a woman all the time, and _only_ a woman, but for me, I'm a man at certain times and a woman at others.”

“Yuuri is a light switch,” Viktor says, obviously very proud of himself for thinking of the analogy.  “He flips between two states, male and female.”

Again, it's not wrong, but it doesn't really feel completely right either.  If it gets the point across, though, he'll take it.  He’s never been able to come up with a good word picture that works for him.  He's tried comparing himself to a bottle of water, whose contents flow from one side to another with relative ease, and to an hourglass, the sand inside him pouring steadily downward until some anonymous thing tips him over and reverses him.  Nothing ever feels perfect, and so he generally doesn't bother voicing it.

In the end, the thing that his father is most concerned about is how he will _know_.  How will he be able to tell when Yuuri is a man or a woman?  He's so genuine about it, because he doesn't want to mess it up, and Yuuri can't hold back a quiet chuckle.

“Sometimes I wear different clothes,” he answers.  “But asking works just fine too.”

“Asking,” he repeats slowly, as if it never occurred to him.  “Right.  Asking.”

***

Later, when they're soaking in the onsen, in as private a corner as they can manage to find, his mood takes a nosedive.  He's not entirely sure why.  He's more relieved than he can articulate that this whole thing is mostly over.  There are still other people to tell, like the Nishigoris and a few other of his friends, but they should be easier.   However, something is still underneath his skin, making him uncomfortable and unable to relax.

Viktor notices and pulls him close, enveloping him in a warm embrace.  He touches his forehead to Yuuri’s and nuzzles him.  “Look around, look around,” he sings, his voice quiet but beautiful, “at how lucky we are to be alive right now~.”

It's supposed to be comforting.  It's not.

“Would you relish being a poor man's wife?” he replies, not singing.  He tries very weakly to escape from Viktor's grasp, but he doesn't even have the energy to do that properly.  “Unable to provide for your life.”

Viktor is silent for a moment.  He probably hadn't expected Yuuri to reply at all, let alone with the saddest possible rendition of that lyric.

Then he smiles and presses a kiss to his nose.  “I relish being _your_ wife!”

"No,” Yuuri whispers.  Every point of contact between his skin and Viktor's is suddenly too much for him to bear, and he finds the strength to slide away.  “That's not…  You've got it backwards.  I can't be Alexander.”

To his relief, Viktor doesn't try to touch him again.  “After what I saw this afternoon,” he comments, “I think you could be.”

Yuuri just stares at him.

“I mean, you know,” he continues, suddenly taking a severe amount of interest in looking at his fingernails, “what with how you’re obstinate to a fault when you think you're in the right, and how it's hard to stop you talking once you've gotten started, and how you sometimes can't see the forest for the trees, as it were.  Need I go on?”

The correct emotional response to that little speech should be anger and indignation, but, ever the fuck-up, Yuuri laughs instead.  “I guess I am, huh?”

Viktor's grin is much too smug when he replies.  “And also there's your immense courage and bravery and your unrelenting desire to pour your soul into everything you do.”

He blushes.  “I suppose….”

“And then,” his fiancé exclaims, throwing his arm very dramatically over his eyes, “there's also the inescapable facts that you're intelligent and charming and sexy, and that you unknowingly make people fall in love with you left and right, only to callously turn a blind eye to their feelings and--”

“Oh, so you're Angelica now?” he says between giggles.  “I guess we're not getting married, in that case.”

Viktor opened his mouth to protest, index finger held high, but hesitated.  Very wisely, he closed his mouth again.  “Nevermind.”

***

That next winter, Yuuri takes gold at the Grand Prix Final.  Instead of going straight back home to St. Petersburg, though, they decide to fly to Japan to spend the interval between the GPF and their respective Nationals in Hasetsu.  When their flight lands in Fukuoka, his family surprises them by showing up with a huge sign to greet them.  The minute his father sees him, though, he drops his end and jumps around like an excited puppy.

“My son!” he yells, pointing at Yuuri.

"Your daughter,” he corrects gently, walking toward the group and wondering if his father has already been at the bottle.  The slight pink flush to his cheeks likely indicates that he has.

“Oh.  My daughter!  Look at my daughter--the best figure skater in the whole world!  ...Yuuri, why aren't you wearing your medal?”

This time, Yuuri's smile is huge and genuine and stays with him all night.


End file.
